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Some time ago I attended a meeting of a TV/TG support and social group in a gay bar just round the corner from the Nightingale Club where the monthly Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar is held. Conversation soon turned to the BBB which one lady had mentioned as a safe space in which to spend the day dressed (which, of course, it is). Another lady commented that I would surely find shocking the things I might see there, what with whips and gags and those things you stick up peoples’ bums.

“Well” I said, “probably not You see, I identify as kinky and BDSM is a big part of my life. I enjoy hitting people and sticking things up their bottoms”

The meeting fell silent and the lady who was so appalled hasn’t spoken to me since. This was all a bit disappointing. I still fail to understand why people who identify on the LBGTQ spectrum have a problem with the accoutrements of consensual BDSM and feel the need to cut a fellow transwoman who identifies as kinky. There is stigma and prejudice enough, as most of those reading this will be only too aware, without such reactions from those one might expect to be more understanding.

So it was a degree of apprehension that I invited my friend Jane to join me and my slave and ta the February BBB. I haven’t known Jane that long. We met through a shared interest in vintage fashion last year and have met up on a few occasions since. I told her a while ago about my kink and she seemed understanding and non-judgemental. I could have guessed that she would react like this. Ladies who are into vintage tend, in my experience, to be tolerant and accepting. Jane likes burlesque and there is a considerable crossover between this and fetish clothing. And my Vivs have always attracted admiring comments at fetish events.

Nonetheless it was an eyeopener for her. We went for lunch and she had more questions than I had time to answer. She was intrigued by the relationship I have with my slave and genuinely curious. She loved much of the clothing that was on sale and had even tried on a latex dress but decided against a purchase (even though I think she looked fabulous in it). But her main impression was about the people.

“Everyone was so friendly” she said “so normal. And I hadn’t expected there wold be so many women.”

And this is the point for me. Look beyond the toys and the clothing and you see people, old, young, able-bodied and not, all genders and sexualities, and none. Just people, among them some of the loveliest people I have ever known. And I thought, too, how good it is to have a vanilla friend who sees that.

In my sub days I had often wondered what it would be like to be on the other side of the fence during a CBT session. Now I was finding out.

I have been on the receiving end on more than one occasion so knew exactly what was going through the head of my sub who was strapped helplessly to the cross as I slapped on the surgical gloves and laid out the pegs in a neat row on the table. What was going on was what I wanted to be going on, apprehension, anticipation, the fear of the unknown. Above all the fear, for good BDSM play is as much about what you might do as about what you actually do do. Mindfuckery is at the heart and for the domme a key element in the pleasure she has from the scene. But I was nervous too. This was a new departure for me in my still young domming career. But I didn’t let my sub see that. Be in control, be composed, be dommely in every word, every movement. Do nothing to break the spell.

I took his cock in my hand, stroked it, felt arousal pulse through it before pulling back the foreskin and flicking hard at the end. He winced and breathed in sharply. I moved my face in close to his and laughed. Then I got to work with the pegs, a colourful arrangement around the tip, along the shaft, on the scrotum and a few in his bushy wiry pubic hair for additional suffering.

I applied the penis gag and ordered him to suck. I stood back, amused at his predicament, and admired my work. It was artistic what I had done, a Mohican of pegs along the top of his cock, blue pegs dangling like cows’ udders from the bottom, red pegs as sentinels around the tip from which precome was starting to dribble. I flicked hard again and his erection began to subside as he whimpered through the gag. I stood back to admire my handiwork again. A pathetic inadequate cock had been turned into a bold strutting peacock, a creature of savage beauty exacting its due toll of pain.

I left him in that state for several minutes and, to mess with his head a little more, took out my canes, stroked them lovingly, smelt the heady aroma of my cruel rubber flogger, ran the lovely tails through my fingers. A taste of delights to come. I walked up to him to tweak a nipple, whisper in his ear.

When the moment came, the knocking off of the pegs with the cane was pure sadistic delight. I laughed again, removed the gag and could feel the rush of relief going thorough him, and gratitude to the domme who had inflicted this pain and yet shown him mercy. I almost felt that he would do anything for me. He had offered me his manhood to play with. He was mine.

I think that CBT can be one of the most beautiful of all BDSM activities, and not just physically. It symbolism is profound. It is the taking of the organ that is a locus of power and pleasure, often both together, a tool of the subjugation of women, and remodelling it as the locus of humiliation, of pain and of subjugation to woman. No man who has offered his cock to a dominant woman to be cruelly used for her amusement c an ever be the same again, For it is not just that he gives her, it is his soul.